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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/29524446">Artificial Lullabye</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/darali_starscream/pseuds/BJ'>BJ (darali_starscream)</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Series:</b></td><td>Supernatural B-Sides [2]</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Supernatural</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Foreshadowing, Gen, John isn't a total bastard, Songfic, Teething babies are evil</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2021-02-18</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2021-02-18</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-15 17:15:28</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Teen And Up Audiences</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>No Archive Warnings Apply</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>1,621</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/29524446</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/darali_starscream/pseuds/BJ</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>We all know Hey Jude is what Mary sang to her babies as a lullabye.  It's a good choice, you can na-na forever until the kid calms down.  John, being half a macho bastard with different tastes in music, would probably sing something a little bit different.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>John Winchester/Mary Winchester</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Series:</b></td><td>Supernatural B-Sides [2]</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Series URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/series/2153316</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>3</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>Artificial Lullabye</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>Song is "Hootchie Cootchie Man," written by Willie Dixon and covered by Steppenwolf on their self-titled album.  Before anybody says anything, Mildred Winchester's Universal Teething Cure isn't recommened because alcohol is poison-- use whatever gum medicine your pediatrician recommends.  All recognizable intellectual properties are owned by their respective creators and holders of any copyrights or trademarks.  This is a not-for-profit work of fan art and protected by Fair Use.</p>
    </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Asleep on his feet, John shuffled down the hall towards the shrieking of all the damned souls of Hell.  Funny, he reflected, of all the times Mary had threatened to run away and join the circus since having the baby, it was only after the little fiend started teething that he'd started to worry she might actually <em>do</em> it.  Funny too, of all the skills bashed into his head in Basic the ability to function while effectively dead was proving most useful in life as a husband and father.</p><p>Making shushing noises, John crossed the nursery to the crib under the window, where his firstborn son wailed in agony to the heavens above.  If angels really were watching, poor bastards must be getting an earful.  "C'mere, Deano," John said, lifting Dean and settling him on his chest.  Did the little rat calm down in the protective circle of his father's arms, lulled by the steady beat of a heart under his tiny pink ear?  <em>Hell</em> no.  Assured of a captive audience, Dean screamed straight into John's ear.  "Thanks kiddo, I can still hear out of that side," he muttered dryly.  "Let's go downstairs before your mother wakes up and bitches me out.  Again."</p><p>Down in the kitchen, John held Dean in one arm and used the other to assemble Mildred Winchester's Universal Teething Cure-- a glass of Four Roses on the rocks.  He dipped his finger into the chilled bourbon and slipped the finger into Dean's tiny mouth.  He winced as Dean bit down with his sharp new teeth.  Three on top and two on the bottom so far.  The demon spawn that had replaced his placid infant son had already drawn blood with the damned things.  God help him, John had come close to slapping Mary when she smacked Dean's nose while feeding him the other day.  He hadn't gotten it until she'd shown him the tiny tooth cuts on her nipple.</p><p>"Lesson number one," John said, massaging his cold whiskey-moist finger against Dean's feverish gums, "is real men <em>never</em> hurt girls.  <em>Especially</em> not that one."  Another dip and thank all the heavenly blessings Dean's howling tapered to sniffles.  A frozen waffle for gnawing and a quick wipe with John's handkerchief, Dean looked almost himself again, peering out at the world with his huge green eyes.  His paternal grandmother's eyes, and didn't Mom just love that?  Not like his own dark brown eyes -- a gift from Grandpa Solomon -- or Deanna Campbell's aquamarine.</p><p>He frowned.  For some reason, when he tried to think of meeting and talking with his in-laws, the memories felt strange in his head.  Like he'd been high at the time.</p><p>Hah.  Show up to the Campbell house bombed equals fancy way to scrag yourself.  Samuel Campbell had detested John on sight and John knew full well he'd never wavered from that judgement.</p><p>Dean started to fuss.  "Sorry Deano," John said, bringing his attention back to the present.  "Just me thinks."</p><p>John drank off the whiskey and stuck the glass in the sink.  Upstairs, he changed Dean and started to put Dean down in the crib.  Dean let out a little whine and John sighed.  On top of everything else, the boy was a slow sleeper.  Putting him straight down was just asking for a repeat performance.  "Can't never make things easy on your old man," he sighed, blissfully unaware of the coming years in which the scrap in his arms would become his only barricade between sanity and madness.  John settled Dean with his son's little face in the crook of his neck and shoulder and started pacing.  The Impala would put him under in a New York Minute, but he'd exchange a crabby baby for a crabby wife, and given a choice--</p><p>Well it wasn't like Mary was the <em>only</em> one of them who could run away and join the circus.  Maybe they could drop Dean off at Mom's and make it a mutual thing.  Goodbye son, hello sequined tights.  See ya when he hits college.</p><p>"<em>Gypsy woman told my mother . . . 'fore I was born . . . you gotta boychild comin' . . . gonna be a real sonofagun . . ."</em> John sang under his breath, keeping his steps short and gently bouncing to the blues riff.  <em>"Gonna make the pretty womens . . . jump and shout,"</em> God it was a fucking miracle, Dean lay quiet in John's arms, waffle forgotten in his mouth, wide eyes turned up to John.  John grinned.</p><p><em>"Cuz you know I'm him . . .</em>" he did a little reverse-step.  <em>"EVER-ry body knows I'm him . . ."</em> remembering Mary feather-light in his arms as they danced at that old honky-tonk outside Jackson, Steppenwolf blaring from the jukebox and realizing he'd fallen like a sack of mail.  <em>"I'm your hootchie-coochie man . . ."</em> God, Dean's little baby smile looked a lot like Mary's, sweet but with that edge, the one that told the world <em>screw around with me at your own risk</em>, <em>"everybody knows I'm here."</em></p><p>He stuck to humming the next verse, and if he threw in a few dancing twirls nobody but God had to know.  If it got Dean to Dreamland he'd drop trou and do the funky chicken.</p><p><em>Yeah,</em> John thought to himself, holding his son a little tighter.  No tinny music box tinkling out a cheap dime replica of a lullaby for <em>his</em> kids.  No disappearing into thin fucking air out of fucking <em>nowhere</em>, leaving Dean alone to be the man of the house.  It still blew John's mind that one day the tiny thing cuddled into him will <em>be</em> a man someday.</p><p><em>Just love him, Johnny,</em> Mildred had told him, the first time she held her grandson in her arms.  <em>Start with that and the rest will follow.</em></p><p>"Yes ma'am," John muttered.  <em>"On the seventh hours . . . on the seventh day . . . the seventh month . . . seven doctors say . . ."</em></p><p>Mary cleared her throat from the doorway and John looked over his shoulder, meeting her tired smile with his own and holding a finger in front of his lips.  <em>"He was born for good luck . . . and that you will see . . ."  </em>Gentle as though he were disabling a landmine, John laid a snorting Dean down in the crib.  <em>"I got seven hundred dollars, so don't you mess with me</em>."   Dean let out a couple sleepy squirms and settled, his mouth curved in a tiny baby smile.  John chuckled a little.  Put it next to his Vietnam Service Medal-- <em>I made my kid smile.</em></p><p>Turning to his wife, John pitched his voice low.  Suggestive.  <em>"But,"</em> he pointed at Mary,<em> "you know I'm him,"</em> Mary smothered a laugh with one hand, <em>"everybody knows," </em>John jerked a thumb back at himself, <em>"I'm him.  I'm your hootchie-cootchie man,</em>" his arm went around Mary.  John kissed her neck where it made her giggle, breathing in her scent of clean hair and soft perfume and just a hint of milk, <em>"Everybody knows, I'm him."</em></p><p>Mary checked on Dean.  She gave John a thumbs-up and tiptoed out.</p><p>"Should we ever tell him why you're singing that to him?" Mary asked.</p><p>John grinned.  "Sure.  When he's old enough to learn how to drive it."  Maybe they should make a pilgrimage to the bridge they'd been parked underneath that night.  He kissed Mary and pulled her close.</p><p>Mary melted under his touch for a few delicious minutes, then gently urged John still.  She yawned.  "Down boy."</p><p>"Yes ma'am."  Hand in hand, they went back up the hallway.</p><p>One whole step.  Then from behind they heard the tattletale tiny whines and snorts.  John shut his eyes and said something he picked up from the Island.  Mary rolled her eyes heavenword and said something she got from her sailor uncle.  Dean made up in volume what he lacked in vocabulary.</p><p>Mary looked at John.  John looked at Mary.  Together, they weighed their love for one another and their love for their son.</p><p>John threw Paper, Mary threw Rock.  Groaning, Mary turned on her heel and went to confront the Beast.  John stood and just listened for a long moment.  A corner of his mouth lifted in a wry smile.  Up to his neck in picket fence wholesomeness and it felt<em> good.</em></p><p><em>I'm a high school dropout who doesn't amount to much,</em> John said to himself.  <em>And I'm going to have to make it up as I go.  But I swear my son will grow up knowing what a man should be, because I'm going to be right there to </em>show<em> him.  Dean I promise-- you'll never doubt how much your daddy loves you.  Not ever.</em></p><p>---</p><p>
  <em>Four years later, John will sit on a cot in a fire station with a howling infant and a silent little boy, the last of his wife leaving him as the smell of smoke fades from his clothes.  Dean still has Sammy in his arms and is pacing and bouncing, the way he's seen Mary do when Sammy fusses but of course he's pacing too fast and bouncing too hard.  He's too young to know babies need finesse.  The John Winchester that would've picked up both his boys and held them close is disappearing too and somehow Dean knows it.  John doesn't do anything but stare at nothing as the fire department's secretary coaxes Dean into slowing down.  She reshapes Dean's arms to cradle Sammy properly and shows him how to sway in that special soothing way.  John can't do anything but be distantly grateful.  At least Sammy's calming down.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>Both of his sons will say later that for all intents and purposes John died when he found Mary burning alive over Sam's crib.  The reality is, John died when the secretary turned the radio on Low and his children spent their first night without their mother falling asleep to an artificial lullabye.</em>
</p><p>---</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>Wow, this went to an angsty place.  I just re-watched S8E12, 'As Time Goes By,' and it explains a lot about John-- why he made the choices he did, why he absolutely refused to home-base the boys with Pastor Jim or Bobby, and why he never really acknowledged the damage he was doing to his sons.  It's the question people raised by troubled parents have to grapple with all their lives; John did the best he could, but how much does that justify?  Or excuse?</p><p>Feedback and constructive criticism welcome.<br/>darali_starscream@yahoo.com</p></blockquote></div></div>
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